


So Much Better reprise

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: Legally Blonde (musical)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-03
Updated: 2007-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:10:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A coda to the show, set after Warner's proposal and before the epilogue finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Much Better reprise

Emmett knows better than to trust a mirror as a source of constructive criticism, but he squints at it anyway, daring his reflection to tell him exactly what sort of body language he should adopt. Would it be too defensive to cross his arms? But would it be too casual to let them loose by his sides? Emmett feels restless and twitchy, almost like at any moment he’d jump out of his own skin if only because of how uncomfortable it currently makes him feel.

“Congratulations,” he says. His voice is calm, his head tilted slightly in what he hopes is an approving manner, but the corner of his mouth that he tried to force into smile has instead turned into a grimace. The mirror seems to agree that it is a wrong approach. He works his jaw, trying to force out the tension, and then snaps it into what is supposed to be an ecstatic grin. “Congratulations!”

Gyah. Even _he’s_ terrified by that.

Emmett slumps forward, hands braced on the edge of the sink, wishing that he could somehow figure out the right way to respond supportively and positively, because although he would prefer to clobber Warner Huntington III on the head with a shampoo bottle, he doesn’t think he could bear Elle being disappointed in him. Emmett can bear a lot of things, he knows, but his Elle-dar is doomed to its maximum setting, tuning in eagerly to every flip and turn of that caffeinated pink suit for all that good and bad that it brings.

Emmett relaxes, and when he looks up at the mirror again, there’s no forced expression. He says, quietly, “I’m so much better than Warner.”

There’s no ego in the words, just soft conviction. Buried deep down, in the angry little pit of his stomach where he tries not to visit if he can help it, Emmett thinks that Elle should know better. If she cannot see beyond the end of her immaculately-powdered nose, then perhaps she hasn’t really learnt anything at all. The thought, sharp and bitter, makes Emmett blink in surprise. He raises a hand to slap himself (not too hard) across a cheek. Who’s to judge what Elle wants, or what will make Elle happy? Emmett still doesn’t get shopping, or pink, or little dogs that like to cuddle up in designer handbags, but he _does_ get that logic rarely has a say in what makes someone happy. Case in point: Emmett has never preferred blondes; Emmett is in love with Elle. (Though to be fair, Emmett has never preferred brunettes or redheads either. Where is this thought going? Emmett has no idea.)

A knocking starts at the door, and by the time Emmett is halfway across his tiny apartment, he knows that it’s her. The faint suggestion of perfume is a hint, but he knows that it’s her because only Elle would knock in a little tune that goes knock-_knock_-_knock_-_knock_-_knock_-knock-knock. She’s about to start on the second verse when Emmett reaches there to open the door.

“Elle?” he says.

“Sshh!” Elle says, waving her hands at him frantically as she slips past into the apartment. “I’m in disguise!”

As he shuts the door behind her, Emmett takes in the view of her large sunglasses, the printed scarf tied around her face (though blonde locks peek out at the back), and the long trenchcoat. To be fair, the trenchcoat _is_ dark purple, but there’s a telltale hot pink belt wrapped around her waist. “Ah.”

Elle whips off the glasses and scarf to narrow her eyes at him. “How did you know it was me?”

“Wild guess,” Emmett says. His mind is a sudden jumble of questions, and he picks one at random. “How do you even know where I live?”

“Oh, I have my ways,” Elle says airily, placing her bags on his third-hand flea market coffee table to give Bruiser a rest.

Emmett is suddenly aware that his apartment is not in condition to welcome the Woods entourage,  and for a moment, he panics. There are books strewn across the floor, old newspapers (for personal archiving) in unattractive piles near the walls, and he’s only thankful for small favours that the week’s laundry has at least been restricted to the makeshift basket in the bedroom. Oh holy crap, the kitchen. Trying not to seem obvious, Emmett shuffles sideways towards the kitchen, hoping to shut the door before she sees the permanent war zone within.

“My place was swamped,” Elle says as she removes her trench, and she turns – Emmett freezes, a wide grin across his face.

“Oh? Swamped with what?” Emmett says, and when Elle walks to the jacket hooks near the door to hang her coat, he quickly kicks the kitchen door shut.

“Reporters, can you believe it?” Elle says. “You’d think they’d never heard of a law student breaking a high-profile case before.”

For a moment Emmett thinks that the sentence was spoken in earnest, but when Elle looks at him, her smile is sheepish and a little embarrassed. He relaxes and laughs at little, then so does she. The sound of her light, lilting laughter shatters the dam at the back of Emmett’s head, filling it with something closer to relief, and before he knows it, he is standing in front of her, squeezing her hands in his. She squeezes right back, and Emmett realises with a start that she came here for this: to find comfort and to feel safe. She came to _him_.

“Hey,” Emmett says softly. “You did good, Woods comma Elle.”

“I was lucky this time,” she says, and the line of her mouth suddenly hardens, inasmuch as it can. “I won’t always be able to rely on luck, I know that. But… I can rely on you, right?”

“You don’t have to ask,” he replies.

Then it is quiet, save the faint dripping of the upstairs pipes, but Emmett is too busy basking in the warmth of the little blonde sun that is Elle. He realises that his fingers fit just right around hers, and surely she must notice that as well. “So… How’s Warner?”

“Who?” Elle says. Then her mind returns from wherever it was and she shakes her head as though to clear it, but Emmett’s already flying high. “Oh! _Right._ Warner. He wanted to catch up on some things, nothing important.”

Yep, Emmett’s flying high.

Even when she lets go to walk to the couch, he can feel the print of her hands in his. He clenches them, sliding his fists into his pockets as though he can bottle up the feeling forever. He only watches as Elle flips her legs over the back of the couch and slides down on to the cushions, her arms flopped out on either side.

“Has that been something, or has _that been something?_” she says. “And it’s all… I feel like… I feel so… What’s the word? I had it on the tip of my tongue. Starts with an F.”

Emmett thinks. “Fabulous?”

“No.”

“Fantastic?”

“Nope.”

There’s a strange new expression on Elle’s face that Emmett has never seen before. He frowns, if only to stop himself from laughing. “Fatigue?”

“Yes!”

Elle says, and she is able to just marginally raise both hands before she has to let them flop back down. “I think the last time I felt this tired was back in junior year, when I forgot to warm up before the Autumn Sale, _big_ mistake. Though I think this was more worth it.”

This is his cue, Emmett knows. This is the time to say the right words that will sweep Elle off her feet, and make that little contented smile his, _all his_ (selfish that may be, but what the hey), but his mind is blank save the wordless feeling of rightness that comes just being Elle, just like this. Trust the little prompter at the back of his brain to step out for a coffee break just when he needs it. Wait a minute.

“Hey, let me get you something to drink,” Emmett says, and heads for the kitchen, which always has coffee on standby. “Do you take coffee?”

“Only if you have a straw! These pearly whites don’t come easy, y’know!” Elle calls out.

“Right, right, straw,” Emmett says, and rummages through his drawers, where, luckily, a pack of spare straws have been tossed aside for a rainy day. He has a goofy smile on his face as he fills up the mug for her, because how bizarre is this? Elle Woods tracked down his apartment and braved the unknown streets to find it. He steps out of the kitchen and starts with, “You know, I was thinking…”

His words trail off when he sees Elle, whose head has tipped back against the head of the couch.

“Elle?” he says.

In answer, she snores. It’s soft, delicate, and definitely feminine, but still a snore.

Emmett stands there for a moment, taking in the odd picturesque nature of the scene. The colours clash in all sorts of wrong ways, but she’s melted into the couch, perfectly at home. Emmett is loathe to move her, but he knows (from first-hand experience) that if she were to stay in that position for long, she’d wake up with a hell of a crick in her neck.

Setting the mug down on the coffee table, Emmett doesn’t inhale too deeply when he moves into the space next to her on the couch, awkwardly placing his arms around her to help move into a more ergonomic position. “Elle? Elle, you’re going to hurt your neck. C’mon.”

Elle’s eyes flutter open and after a moment of disorientation, they settle on Emmett. The expression in them changes and though she doesn’t smile, Elle’s arms move round to wrap Emmett’s torso, and she rests her forehead on the shoulder of his faded white tee. It’s at an awkward angle, but Emmett’s not surprised that even a highly lethargic Elle is able to make such a hug work.

Without thinking, Emmett says, “I’m better than Warner.”

At first Emmett thinks that Elle has fallen asleep; that she didn’t hear him. But then she says, “Please promise me that you’ll never say that again.”

Before Emmett can process that statement to its fullest, she continues with, “Never ever judge yourself by that standard. You’re Emmett Forrest, incomparable.”

“Hah. If you say it, it _must_ be true then.” Emmett smiles against her hair.

Her soft laugh causes a faint rumble against his collarbone. It’s not an unwelcome feeling, even when Elle suddenly turns into deadweight and he can feel her wuffling snore against the same spot.

“Uh, Elle?” Emmett says, starting to fall backwards under her weight. Though his chest is enjoying the attention, his back is starting to protest. “Ow. You know I love you, but I’d rather not break my back just yet. Elle?”

A sudden loud knocking makes Emmett jump, which is a significant achievement considering he has a full-grown woman sprawled across him. It’s quite an awesome position to be in, but that train of thought skids to halt when the knocking is replaced by a barked, “Mr. Forrest, we just want a few words with you!”

“Elle!” Emmett hiss-whispers, and he shakes her firmly.

She replies with an annoyed, “Byuh.”

“Elle, I think the reporters followed you,” he says. Sure enough, he can now hear other muffled voices chattering behind the closed door, all unfamiliar but filled with unmistakable reporter-type intent. Elle makes a sound that could be a sigh, but otherwise does not move.

There’s nothing else for it. Emmett tips Elle carefully on to his right shoulder, bearing all her weight on that side of his body so he can use his freed hand to reach out for the cup of coffee still on the table. The cup, however, refuses to cooperate by bridging the distance to his fingers, and since Emmett cannot evolve telekinesis abilities on the spot, he awkwardly lets himself fall completely on to his back on the couch, Elle still sprawled all on top of him, and then stretches his free arm out as far it can go.

If this were a sitcom, the laugh track would be on overdrive right now. Bruiser seems to agree, and watches Emmett claw his way towards the coffee cup with something akin to doggy amusement in his eyes.

Then, finally! Thankfully, it takes less time manoeuvring the cup back to himself without spilling it or tipping it over, and soon he is able to get it close enough for Elle’s nose to take in the coffee aroma. Sure enough, she stirs.

“Mr. Forrest, we – I mean, _I_, yes, I – only want five minutes of your time,” the reporter-type voice says.

Emmett doesn’t know how he does it (even later, when thinking of it in retrospect, he still doesn’t know how he did it), but he manages to get Elle to sit up just far enough and cognisant just enough that she is able to willingly take a long sip of coffee through the straw.

It isn’t long before Elle’s eyes jump open. “Whoa!”

“Elle?” Emmett says.

With the accuracy of homing beacons, Elle’s hands snap into a death grip round the coffee mug. She sits up, eyes wide, and takes a long deep gulp that empties the mug completely. Emmett, however, is busy grunting with effort to get up while at the same time not unbalance Elle – who appears to be perfectly comfortable sitting on his legs.

“This is some good coffee!” Elle exclaims. “Is this a special brew or what?”

“My mom sends them to me from—”

_Knock-knock_ go the busy people behind the door. “Mr. Forrest?”

Elle’s head turns sharply to scowl at the door. Setting the cup down, she jumps off Emmett and raises a hand in the air. “Quick! To Paulette’s!”

“Get Bruiser,” Emmett says, and he’s off the couch to grab his jacket and Elle’s trench from the hooks. She’s running on coffee while he’s running on adrenaline-fuelled fear; Elle scoops Bruiser into his bag, turns her arms back to let Emmett slip the coat over her arms, flips her hair out of the collar, and then turns to button up Emmett’s jacket. In a way it’s their first dance (sort of), and if he had a moment to think about it, Emmett would have found it highly amusing. “Fire escape,” he says.

He’s got one leg out of the window when Elle stops and goes, “Oh, oh, oh!”

“What?” Emmett says.

“I love you, too!” Elle says, and kisses him.

It takes more pounding on the door and Bruiser’s slightly annoyed _yip_ to get them to focus on matter at hand. Emmett thinks his jaw will break from all the grinning, but he immediately decides that he has to get used to it. “Oh my god,” he says.

“I know, right?” Elle replies.

When they step out onto the fire escape, Emmett’s only regret is that he has to wait until they get to the ground before he can take her hand in his. They run off together, and _oh my god_, it only gets so much better from there on.


End file.
